Finances being what they are, I can no longer afford the sessions. Technically speaking, I could never really afford them; only by the grace of the good people at Visa have I been able to come this far in my journey. It's time, however, to strike out alone.
And so, at my second-to-last training session, I became acutely aware of the ticking clock. It's now or never.
J sauntered over and asked me what I wanted to work on tonight. (He probably doesn't know that he saunters. Eventually, when he stumbles unwittingly across this chronicle of the agonies of my Year In Training, he may be surprised at this revelation. But yes, J - you saunter. It's a good look for you.)
I averted my eyes and shrugged. I knew what I wanted to work on. I just didn't have the guts to come right out with it.
"I'm going to regret this," I began after as long a pause as I could have gotten away with, "but... can we do glutes and hamstrings?"
And when I raised my eyes back to his, I swear to you, he looked like a kid on Christmas.
In retrospect, I should have requested that we work on legs, maybe being sure to hit glutes and hamstrings. Because, my dear friends, we did nothing but glutes and hamstrings.
Forty minutes of glutes and hamstrings.
I'm going to let that sink in. Allow your brain to really marinate in that idea.
Got it? Good.
We started on one of these machines:
Forearms go on the front two pads, grab the handles, belly rests on the middle pad, one knee on the rear pad. My other leg bends at the knee, foot on the plate at the back, and with that free leg, I push the plate back and up toward the ceiling.
Twelve of those on each leg and immediately over to the mat with a Swiss ball. Laying flat on my back with heels up on the ball, lift my hips toward the ceiling and bend my knees, rolling the ball to my glutes, then rolling it back out. Keeping my hips up, repeating this twelve times.
And then to the stationary lunges. Ten pounds in each hand, stepping forward into a lunge, then driving through the heel and pushing myself back up to where I started. Twelve on each leg.
Repeat all three, three times total. Congratulations, I have spent a whopping ten minutes.
Yikes.
Then to the leg press, where I did one-legged presses. Using one leg changes the emphasis on the muscles, so instead of working mostly quads, this was recruiting my hips and glutes.
Twelve on each leg and to the hamstring curl machine. Twelve curls, then back to the leg press. Three sets.
We headed to the middle of the gym, and J stopped short. He considered something for a moment, then said to me, "I want you to choose what we're doing next. There's the treadmill, and I want you to sprint under your own power. Or you can choose squat jumps."
The answer to this one was a no-brainer. I remember one of my early sessions, being parked on a treadmill and told to hunker down and start running, pushing that belt myself. I remember it made my whole body tremble. I remember almost falling down.
I don't usually say things like this, but it was, without a doubt, one of my absolute least favorite things I've ever done. Squat jumps? Literally, squatting down and then jumping into the air? Yes, please.
But before I could answer, he said, "So we're going to alternate between the two, but you can choose what we start with."
Oh. Oh.
I looked at the floor, muttered something vulgar, and said I'd do the treadmill first. J nodded his assent. "It's good to start there while you're still relatively fresh."
"It's funny that you think I'm 'relatively fresh' right now," I said, wiping the sweat from my eyes. And I climbed onto the treadmill.
Thirty seconds equals forever. It's important that you all know this. Diving into such an exercise is like slipping into a black hole, time stretching inexorably as you cross the event horizon, single seconds lengthening into eternity.
I labored, gasping for air and making all manner of appalling sounds. My feet slid over the roller at the end of the treadmill, and the moment J said "Stop," I staggered off the belt, doubled over.
I'm pretty sure I swore again. I wanted to say how much I hated it. There wasn't enough breath.
But squat jumps wait for no man, and I had twelve to do. I finished them, feeling triumphant, almost managing a smile. I'd nearly vomited, but damn it, I made it!
"Good," said J. "Back to the treadmill."
And he sauntered away, a meek "What?" escaping my lips. Oh yes, he meant it.
To his credit, he stepped up on a treadmill beside me, sharing in my pain. But it was all I could do to stay upright, to say nothing for running. My body was shaking, my stomach was roiling, I was breathing so heavily that my throat was raw.
Here, for the first time in ten months, I had met my match. I had no witty comment, no self-deprecating encouragement, nothing. I stopped.
I had never bailed out on an exercise before. I've grunted and whined and gasped my way through dozens upon dozens of lifts, sprints, and bodyweight exercises. I may have needed to slow down, but I have never been forced to stop, until tonight.
J allowed me approximately three seconds of self-pity before shuffling me back to the squat jumps, patiently waiting while I tried to catch my breath, then finish them.
And, yes, it was back to the treadmill, where I wisely started slowly. Very slowly. My sprint had become a lurch, but I moved that belt, and I didn't stop until J told me to.
I'm pretty sure he said "Stop" after only fifteen seconds. Fifteen long seconds. I thanked him for not letting me fail. I hope he knows how much I meant it.
A final set of squat jumps and we were done with legs. Finally.
Our routine abs set was hell, as usual, but otherwise unremarkable. I didn't vomit, I didn't cry. I finished, barely. As usual.
Thus ended my last legs night with J. Nearly thirty minutes later, I was still a little light-headed, unable to focus, nauseous, trembling. I was yawning compulsively - either from tremendous exhaustion or compensating for the oxygen debt.
This is nothing compared to what I'll experience the rest of this week. Legs weeks are always bad, but none worse than when we hit the hamstrings hard. Quads are what make me unable to climb stairs or bound out of bed in the morning, but the list of things I can't do with sore hamstrings is humbling: I can't tie my shoes. I can't lean over. I can't even sit without extreme, acute pain.
That last one is my favorite. I'm bracing myself for work, the way my coworkers will watch me, expectantly, as I gingerly lower myself into my chair with a whimper. This will go on for days.
Next Monday will be it. I have no idea what agonies will be inflicted upon me, but I have a hard time believing it could be worse than tonight. Or better.
And this, I think, is what I will miss most about J. Being forced out of my comfort zone. Redefining what's possible. I always tell him that if I'm not a little afraid when coming to my session, he's not doing his job. That I can be nice to myself on my own time. From now on, it's all my own time.
It may be time to get a little mean. This body won't change itself.
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